Blood Ties
by chazper
Summary: Written for the OCSFC. Papa Atwood is getting out of prison and he wants his sons to pick him up. Rated for language. Part 4: Almost There
1. Chapter 1

**Blood Ties**

"Don't hang up, Ry."

He had flipped the phone open hastily, expecting Seth, hoping for Theresa, or maybe the manager at any of the dozen places where he had applied for work. His palm, still damp from the shower, almost fumbled the handset even before he heard the voice at the other end.

The words were a plea, not a threat or an order. Still, they stopped Ryan's breath. He froze, his skin prickling. Even alone in the poolhouse, he felt exposed, every nerve throbbing just under his skin. Instinctively, he retreated into a corner.

"Ry? You still there, little brother?"

"I'm here," he said tersely. The fingers that had been combing back his wet hair clenched, nails scoring his scalp "What do you want, Trey?"

He heard a sound, maybe a sigh, and then his brother, enunciating precisely. "Jess told me, Ry. About Marissa. Shit, I'm just . . . I'm so sorry, man. Maybe you don't want to hear it, but I am."

Ryan's tongue searched for saliva enough to speak. "Yeah," he whispered. "I know." Echoes of the memorial service flitted through his mind; all those other hushed _sorry_s, such tired platitudes and sobs and scalding silences. He couldn't make Trey's awkward sympathy fit anywhere. It didn't belong, but it felt real and oddly comforting.

There was a pause. Ryan sensed Trey waiting, but he could find nothing else to say. His finger hovered over the "End" button. As though he could see it there, Trey urged abruptly, "Wait! Ry, I didn't call just . . . about Marissa."

It vanished instantly, that fleeting sense of brotherhood. "Right. You want something," Ryan concluded. His voice closed like a fist.

"No! Not the way you think. Shit. Just listen, all right?"

"Why? What's the point?"

"Fuck it," Trey mumbled. "I hate this long-distance crap. Look, it's about dad."

The term bewildered Ryan. He narrowed his eyes, trying to decipher what it might mean. "What?"

"Dad," Trey repeated. "He's getting out, Ry. And he wants us to pick him up."

Ryan grabbed a t-shirt from a wicker basket, frowned, replaced it, and selected another identical one.

"Did you hear me, little brother? The fucker tracked me down. Don't ask me how, but he did. I get this call and guess what? It's dear old Dad. Tells me he's getting early release, and he wants us both there when he's sprung. His boys, he says. You and me."

"No."

Just that, and Ryan hung up. Automatically, he started dressing. He hadn't even pulled the wifebeater all the way over his head before the phone rang again. Ignoring it, he smoothed the shirt and slid on a pair of jeans—new ones that Kirsten had placed on his bed yesterday, along with a towering stack of khakis and sweaters, socks and underwear.

"_For college," she murmured, flushing slightly._

"_Kirsten, it's too much. I can't." _

"_It may look like a lot, but you'll need them, Ryan. Sometimes it's hard to get laundry done in a dorm." Smiling wistfully, Kirsten brushed Ryan's rumpled hair off his forehead. "I don't want you to run out of clean clothes. Please. Just take them. For me."_

_Her eyes looked so anxious, so hopeful that he couldn't refuse_.

The jeans were stiff and a little loose around Ryan's waist. He concentrated on working the stubborn button, trying to ignore the strident voicemail message.

"Pick up, Ry. Do it, man. You can't just say no like that and be done. He's our fucking father."

Ryan closed his eyes, wondering why it was possible to shut out sight but not sound, and not memory.

"Look, you don't owe the asshole anything, I get that. But he owes us, Ry. If we don't go, you think he's ever gonna call us again? I figure this is our only shot."

The button slid out of Ryan's grasp. His fingers trembled violently and he had to sit down.

"God. Damn you, Trey," he panted, but he didn't pick up the phone.

Trey's voice continued, gruff and inexorable. "I know you, little brother. No matter what, it's gonna eat you away inside if you don't go. Even if it's just to spit in his sorry face--"

Ryan snatched the handset. He meant to throw it across the room, but the warm plastic adhered to his palm and somehow he jabbed the 'talk' button instead. "Don't, Trey," he hissed. "Don't fucking pretend that you know how I feel."

Silence stretched across the line. "Shit, little brother," Trey said at last. "I'm probably the only person who does."

Ryan recoiled as if he had been hit. Clenching his fist, he searched for some defense. "I don't want to see him," he insisted. He gritted his teeth, trying to make the words true. "I don't want to see you. We're done."

"Like hell we are."

"We were done when you got on that bus--"

"Then why did you show up there?" Trey demanded. "You could have just gone back to the Cohens, picked up your cushy life in their poolhouse, written me off right then. But it doesn't work, does it—pretending you're not an Atwood? I'm still your brother. Dawn the train wreck is our mother. And that fucking loser that we hardly know? Yeah, he's our father."

Ryan bit his lip. He could feel bits of himself being sliced away. The cuts weren't even clean. It was if someone was dragging a cheese grater over each part of him, shredding layer after layer, through muscle and bone, down to the marrow.

"Bottom line, Ry? We're blood. No way you can cut us out."

Blinking, Ryan stood up. He took several ragged breaths. "When?" he muttered hoarsely.

"What?"

"When is he getting out?"

Trey's tone changed. The anger and urgency ebbed away, leaving nothing behind but a kind of brittle weariness.

"Tomorrow. Supposed to be signed out around noon. So you're coming?"

Through the half-open blinds, sunlight slanted into the poolhouse, slicing across Ryan's face. He winced and turned his back. The answer shoved its way out, one spasm of the tongue and a single puff of air. "Yeah."

"Okay." Ryan heard a hollow shushing sound. He pictured his brother, shifting the handset to his other ear, anchoring it in place with a hunched shoulder while he lit a cigarette. "Okay. Look, Ry, I'm back in Chino. I, um, I hooked up with an old friend. You remember Angie?" Ryan recalled the name, but it was just one in a long, faceless series. There was no person attached. Trey coughed and continued, "Anyway, I'm stayin' at her place. You want, you could drive down tonight, crash on the couch--"

"I'm not driving."

"Shit, I'm not saying you have to play chauffer. Whaddya think, that's why I asked you to come, to give me a goddamn ride--" Trey fumbled to an abrupt stop. "Oh hell, little brother," he amended heavily. "Is this because--? Fuck, never mind. I'll borrow Angie's car, come pick you up."

"No," Ryan answered, implacable. Tilting his head back, he squinted at the clock. His eyes followed the second hand as it jerked around the dial. "I'll take a bus in the morning."

He could almost hear Trey's resigned shrug, his breath gusting around a lungful of smoke. "Yeah, whatever. Meet you at Tony's Diner? Say around ten?"

"Ten o'clock," Ryan confirmed.

"Ry?" Trey cleared his throat uncertainly. "I'll be waiting."

Neither brother said goodbye.

As Ryan hung up, he glanced at the answering machine. Its light blinked, reminding him that he never turned it off. The whole conversation had been recorded. If he wanted, he could play it all again, try to figure out where the trap had been set, how he had been lured back inside.

Instead, he pressed "erase."

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The bus was almost empty when Ryan boarded it the next morning. Several people got off in Newport—day laborers, he assumed, noting their worn clothes and sturdy, thick-soled shoes, so similar to his own—but he was the only person who climbed on for the return trip.

He made his way to the back and fell into a seat, shifting over so he could lean against the window. Next to him, air hissed from a vent that snaked along the wall. Chilly and stale, it smelled like loneliness. Ryan shivered. He zipped his hoodie, huddled into its soft folds, and willed himself not to worry, or remember, or feel.

All he wanted to do was ride the bus, let its fitful rhythm lull him into oblivion.

He didn't want to think about anything.

Not about how he had lied to the Cohens so glibly, with such guileless, disquieting ease.

_I got a day's work on a construction crew_. _Sure I can, I'm fine. No, not in Newport. Thanks anyway, but I've got a ride._

Not about their faces: Sandy's troubled eyes, the creases around Kirsten's mouth, Seth's forlorn expression as he waved goodbye.

_Are you sure, kid? You don't need to work. Sweetie, I wish you'd reconsider. Then I guess I'll see you when you get home, dude._

Not about the sick, roiling sensation that had woken him before two, so that he thrashed sleeplessly the rest of the night, 400 count Egyptian cotton sheets twisted around his bare legs.

And not about the images that hounded him in the dark: Trey, blood, fists, police cars, his father's jaw tensing with fury, his upraised hands.

Especially not about those.

The bus turned inland, and Ryan clenched his eyes shut. Even behind his lids, he could sense the light outside start to change, clear to murky, sheer gold to hazy yellow-gray. He concentrated on counting the stops, pressing his nails into his thigh each time the door sighed open, listening to the disjointed noises that filtered in from the street. As long as he focused on those sounds, fragments of other people's lives, he could forget his own. He could enjoy the pretense of being no one, and nowhere at all.

It was peaceful, riding the bus, the way Ryan imagined resting in a hammock would be, swaying suspended between trees.

In space, out of time, between realities.

Between the Cohens and the Atwoods. No guilt, no responsibilities, no perilous expectations.

But then the bus wheezed to another shuddering halt and Ryan's fist closed.

Fifteen. The next stop would be his.

Reluctantly, his eyes fluttered open. Through the window, he recognized the slums of Chino: the grimy landscape, parched pockets of dying grass, buildings crowding the pavement, elbowing each other for room, cars jacked up on blocks, broken toys abandoned where they fell.

He made himself stand and walk to the exit, touch the sensor to claim that he wanted to get off. The doors groaned wearily as they opened and a rush of air, thick with exhaust, buffeted his face. Breathing through his teeth, Ryan braced himself and climbed off the bus. It idled in front of him, blocking his view, granting him another moment's reprieve. Then the light changed, the bus lumbered away, and he saw his brother, already waiting across the street.

Maybe it was a trick of the light, something about his perspective, or the angle of his restive glance, but Trey seemed older, dimmer somehow than Ryan expected.

Head titled indolently, he lounged against a battered red sedan. He looked like a permanent fixture, as though he had watched there forever and would never move. But then Ryan stepped off the curb and Trey straightened with sudden, careless grace, lifting his chin and flicking away his cigarette. It cart-wheeled to the gutter, its lit end flashing red like the rotating light on a police car. Instinctively, Ryan veered sideways, grinding the burning stub under his boot before he crossed back to meet his brother.

Trey sucked in the corners of his mouth, his cords in his neck tensing. One hand started to reach toward Ryan. Abruptly, it changed direction, pulling back to knead the nape of his own neck instead. "So . . . you made it, bro," he observed.

Ryan nodded warily. His gaze skittered over the car, the sidewalk, the chipped "No Parking" sign, the faded fold lines on his brother's cuffs, the faint, familiar scar on the side of his wrist. Finally it settled on the flickering "EAT" sign behind his ear.

He couldn't make himself look at Trey's face.

"You wanna . . .?" Shrugging, Trey jerked his head back toward the cheap diner. "We got some time to kill before we have to go."

"I guess," Ryan murmured.

Dutifully, as he had done so often while they were growing up, he followed Trey into the restaurant. The dusky room reeked of used grease and salt, sweat and old clothes. Battered stools lined the counter. Rust flaked off their metal posts and matted tufts of cotton poked out from cracks on the green plastic seats. Still, Ryan passed them wistfully.

He wished they could sit there, separately, facing straight ahead, but Trey had already slung himself into a booth, his body slouched the way Ryan remembered, precariously close to the edge.

From somewhere long ago, he could hear voices: his own ten-year old treble, Trey's proud new baritone.

"_Why don't you slide in, Trey? You got all that room."_

"_Nah, this right here? This is where a guy wants to sit, LB."_

"_Why?"_

"_Shit, Ry, think, why doncha? You sit on the outside, the waitress is grab-ass distance away every time she walks past. And when she leans over? You get the best titty-view in the house. Watch and learn, little brother. Watch and learn." _

Swallowing hard, Ryan slid in opposite Trey, shifting over until he could feel the wall. His eyes darted sideways, glancing off his brother's, and finally fastening on the scuffed Formica table.

"Hungry?" Trey asked cautiously.

"No. I ate," Ryan answered. He started to add 'at home,' but the words caught in his throat. "You can though," he mumbled instead.

Trey's jaw tightened, and his mouth compressed into a thin, flinty line. He inhaled sharply, about to speak, when the waitress sauntered over, her hips swaying pertly under pink polyester.

"Morning, guys. I'm Stacy," she crooned, dropping paper menus in front of them. "What can I get you?"

"Coffee. Black," Ryan replied.

"That's it? We got some really good cherry pie this morning. Blueberry too." Stacy smiled, leaning forward. "Sure I can't tempt you now?"

"He said coffee," Trey snapped. "That's all he wants, okay?"

A sinister current ran under his voice and Stacy rocked back. "Sorry. Black coffee," she mumbled, scribbling on her order pad. "What about you?"

"The number four breakfast. No fucking juice, and make sure the eggs are runny." Tossing the unused menus back at the waitress, Trey stretched out, staring an unspoken challenge as she retreated.

Ryan waited, eyes downcast, until Stacy was gone. "It wasn't her fault, Trey," he cautioned quietly.

"What?"

"What I said—that you could eat. I wasn't . . . giving you permission."

Trey buried his mouth behind a loose fist. A strangled oath oozed through his fingers. "I know that," he muttered. "It just sounded like . . . Fuck. Whatever, man." Sliding his hand down, he scratched the scruff along his chin. "The Cohens give you a hard time about coming today?" he asked diffidently. "Figured they might try to change your mind. Or Mr. Cohen would show up with you."

"They don't know what I'm doing," Ryan admitted, flushing.

"The hell?" Startled, Trey peered across the table. "Thought you were all about the truth, bro. So what, you keep secrets from them now?"

The "now" stung and Ryan flinched, recalling all the secrets he'd kept recently: his near-lethal fight with Volchok after the prom, the car theft he'd abetted, the blackmail money he'd paid, his feelings ever since Marissa's body had slumped, lifeless in his arms. "They've been through enough on my account," he explained tonelessly. The seam on his hoodie chafed and he stretched it away from his neck. "I didn't want to put this on them too."

Grabbing a napkin, Trey began to shred it into ragged bits. "Yeah. Probably better that way," he agreed. "Keep them out of the Atwood shit this time." His tone changed. It became tentative, as though he were picking his way through a minefield. So, Ry . . . you all right? I mean . . . since Marissa? You doing okay?"

Instantly, Ryan's face shuttered. "I can't talk to you about her."

The diner door slammed open, and two men entered, calling greetings to Stacy. Their raucous laughter ricocheted throughout the room.

Trey leaned across the table, pitching his voice low. "Hell, man, you think I don't know that?"

The words were raw, helpless and anguished. Ryan started, listening. He knew those emotions. His brother sounded the way he felt when he woke up every morning, every time he saw the sun glint on the water, every time a smile died, half-formed on his lips.

"I was asking about you," Trey continued. "I worry about you, all right?" He snorted and shook his head. Balling up the scattered bits of napkin, he flung them on the floor. "Yeah, how fucked-up is that?"

Ryan sucked in a shaky breath. "Trey. Let's just . . . not," he pleaded. "Not now, okay?"

As he spoke Stacy reappeared, grim-faced, with their coffee. Taking his with a quick, contrite smile, Ryan drained half the contents in one swallow. He set the cup down, tracing its rim with one thumb, his gaze boring through the dark liquid.

"What do you suppose he wants?" he blurted. Somehow he couldn't form the word "Dad."

Trey's eyes flickered, dark gray into light. "Hell, little brother," he sighed. "Ask me something I can answer."

Unbidden, Ryan's mind conjured a distant memory: His father, raging into the house, yanking Trey off the living room floor.

"_You think I want to come home to that fucking mess outside, Trey? Figure I like falling over your goddamn bike? Next time you leave that heap of junk on the sidewalk, I'm throwing it in the trash. Throw you in after it, you worthless little shit."_

Instantly, a string of images followed, the last events Ryan could recall clearly before his father's arrest. Like film, they unspooled into a forgotten home movie, grainy, distorted, and true: ten-year-old Trey entering a novelty shop, his walk already almost a swagger, scarcely waiting for Ryan who trotted three steps behind.

"_What do you think Dad will want, Trey?"_

"_Don't know, and don't care. Mom's stupid if she thinks a lameass Father's Day Gift is gonna make him happy. Like he fucking deserves one anyway."_

"_But we should get him one right? Because he's our dad?"_

_Trey rolled his eyes. Without answering, he hauled Ryan down the aisle toward a display marked "Fun Gifts for Father's Day!" The counters held an array of cheap items: shoehorn backscratchers, trophies that proclaimed "#1 Dad," shot classes inscribed, "Here's to You, Pop!"_

_Uncertainly, Ryan picked up a key chain with the word "DAD" formed from interlocked stars._

"_Would he like this, maybe?" he asked._

_Ignoring him, Trey stared at a stack of cards. Ryan's gaze followed. One box was open, with a single card propped on top. It had a shimmery surface, like water in sunlight, but its picture was unexciting: just a plain woman wearing glasses, hair scraped into a tight bun, white blouse buttoned to her chin, sitting primly at a table. Looking at it, Ryan didn't understand why his brother's mouth puckered into a sly upside-down grin. Then Trey touched the card, one slight flick of his thumb, and the image changed. Like magic, the woman was leaning over the table, her breasts arched and spilling out of a tiny black bra, her hair cascading in golden waves. Above her head flashed an invitation: "Hey big boy, wanna play?"_

_Trey's eyes glinted hungrily. "Look innocent," he ordered, spinning Ryan around, and knocking down a "Best Dad" award at the same time. _

"_Sorry!" he called to the glowering clerk. "It's my little brother. He's clumsy sometimes. Don't worry, I'll get it!"_

_Ryan blinked, stunned, his blue eyes glistening, his blond hair shining halo-bright in the shaft of sun where Trey shoved him. _

_The clerk's expression softened instantly. "Aw, don't worry about it, sweetie pie," she crooned. "No harm done." Smiling reassurance, she gave a maternal sigh. "Aren't you just the cutest little thing now? You want a piece of gum, sugar?"_

_Ryan started to shake his head no, but Trey elbowed him and he stumbled forward, stammering a shaky "Thank you."_

_Trey's lips curled in triumph. He waited until the woman was fishing for her pack of gum, then stooped down to retrieve the plaque, deftly pocketing a deck of cards at the same time. When Ryan scurried back, Trey rumpled his hair with elaborate affection, nodding at the clerk over his head, and pulling him close._

"_Damn," he whispered gleefully. "Hope you keep that baby face a long time, LB."_

_Ryan lowered his voice to match his brother's. "Are you gonna give those to Dad?"_

"_Hell, no," Trey snorted. Scanning the shelves, he grinned suddenly, grabbed a framed certificate and thrust it into Ryan's hands. "Here. We'll get him this," he announced._

_Ryan squinted at the scrolled border, the elaborate black lettering. "University of Pay--Pater Family—Familias. Master of Fatherhood," he sounded out dubiously. "What is it, Trey?"_

"_A joke diploma," Trey explained with satisfaction. "See. It's an MF degree. From the University of Family-ass. The perfect gift for dad."_

_Biting his lip, Ryan shook his head. "You'll make him mad," he warned._

"_Shit, LB, he'll never even get the joke."_

"_It doesn't matter. He won't like it." Anxiously, Ryan searched the cheap display. At last he pointed to a baseball cap that proclaimed "MVP" and underneath "Most Valuable Pop." "Maybe he'll want that?" he suggested._

_Trey groaned audibly. "Jeez, LB, don't you get it by now? We're never gonna be able to give Dad what he wants. No matter what we do, it's gonna be wrong. It always is."_

The memory-film sputtered and then resumed jerkily: their father's thick fingers tearing open flimsy wrapping paper, pulling out the baseball cap, holding it up like something dead and stinking.

"_What the fuck is this?"_

"_A father's day gift, babe!" Dawn laughed nervously, fingers fumbling her cigarette lighter. " Isn't that sweet, the boys got you something?"_

_Ryan stepped back, almost knocking into Trey as their father scowled at them. "What are you two, retards or something? You think I want crap like this? 'MVP. Most Valuable Pop,'" he mocked in a singsong voice laced with acid. "Yeah, I'm fucking gonna wanna wear a candy-ass thing like that. How much did this junk cost anyway?" No one replied and he repeated ominously, "How much?"_

"_Four-fifty," Trey muttered._

"_Five bucks," their father spat. "For this trash. Where'd you get the money?"_

_Trey's breath hissed through his teeth but he didn't answer. In the silence, Ryan's uneasy gaze skittered from his brother to his father and back again. He ducked his head. "Mom gave it to us," he admitted softly._

"_Ry--" Dawn warned, blanching, but it was too late._

"_Yeah? Mom gave it to you? And where the fuck you think she got it?" their father demanded. Swigging from his beer bottle, he wiped his mouth and raged on. "From me, that's goddamn where. I get laid off and you little shits think I got money to waste on garbage like this? Hell, I knew your mother was stupid, but you're supposed to be my kids. Maybe not, huh, Dawn? You been spreadin' 'em for somebody else? 'Cause no way in hell I coulda fathered idiots like these two."_

_Ryan locked his teeth on his lower lip to keep it from trembling. He could feel Trey stiffening beside him._

"_Told you, LB," he muttered._

_Their father's brows lowered, bristling. "What did you say, boy?"_

"_Nothing," Trey claimed. The beer bottle slammed down, clamped in a sweaty fist, and he jerked, plunging a hand into his pocket. "Just—here," he added hastily, pulling out the deck of cards and tossing it at his father. "We got you this too."_

_Squinting skeptically, their dad caught the box and held it in his open palm. He nodded, his face dark with leering appreciation as the image changed. Dawn peeked over his shoulder, her own gaze widening, her mouth twitching slightly._

"_Oh yeah," he drawled, licking his lips. "Now this is what I call a goddamn gift. How much you pay for it?"_

_Trey's chin lifted in challenge. "Nothing," he admitted. "Not one cent."_

_For a moment, their father glared at Trey and Ryan, his eyes a glassy, unreadable gray. Then he threw back his head, gargling a laugh deep in his throat. "About fucking time!" he exclaimed. "My boys finally get me something I want. And whaddya know? The damn price is right too." _

"Ry?"

Startled, Ryan shook his head. His brother's voice sounded distorted, as though it was bubbling down to him deep underwater. When he managed to focus, Trey was staring at him, bemused, curling one corner of his mouth the way he used to when Ryan would read in the skimpy moonlight that filtered through their open window. The plate in front of him was empty except for a crust discarded among smears of congealing egg yolk.

"Sorry," Ryan muttered. His mouth filled with bitter saliva and he swallowed, breathing hard. "You done?"

Trey's eyes narrowed speculatively. He crumpled his unused napkin and wadded it into his coffee cup. "Yeah," he replied. "Sure." Tossing a few bills on the table, he swung out of the booth and waited as Ryan pushed himself to the edge. "So, little brother," he prompted, blocking Ryan's exit. "You work anything out?"

"What?"

"All that heavy thinking you were doing? You, me, dad? Figure out how you fit in to the whole fucking Atwood family?"

Startled, Ryan flushed, his gaze flickering up to his brother and dropping again guiltily.

"Trey--" he stammered. "That's not . . ."

"Yeah it is." Shrugging, Trey stepped aside, his tone tired but gentle, almost affectionate. "Told you, LB. We're blood. I know how you feel . . . So. You ready to go see dear old dad?"

Ryan closed his eyes and opened them again. Slowly, carefully, he nodded. He stood up, his shoulder brushing Trey's. Without either of them realizing it, he echoed his brother's own resigned words, his fatalistic expression.

"Yeah," Ryan said. "Sure."

TBC


	2. Chapter 2

Blood Ties 2 

"Radio's broke."

His hand already wrapped around the door handle, Ryan paused, startled. He peered at his brother over the hood, eyes narrowed and reflecting the cloudy blue of the car. "What?"

Trey pulled out a cigarette. The keys dangling from his finger rasped impatiently when he flicked the lighter. "No radio," he replied, through the restless flame. "No tape or CD player either. Just thought you should know." Challenge simmered on his face. With a shrug, he exhaled a lungful of smoke and slid into the driver's seat.

Ryan's gaze faltered as his brother disappeared. Although there was no one to see, he nodded, one quick dip of his head, and pulled the handle.

The door didn't budge.

Hissing slightly, Ryan stepped back. Through the smudged window, he could see Trey's profile, chin tipped up, eyes slit nearly shut. The knuckles of one hand scratched his chin, while the other balanced his twitching cigarette.

They stayed like that for a moment: Trey slouched in the driver's seat, Ryan standing still in the sun. Sweat pooled under his collar as he waited, unwilling to knock, resisting the instincts that urged him to walk away. Finally, Trey glanced over. His brows lifted with some emotion Ryan couldn't quite read: surprise, or amusement, or satisfaction. Maybe, just briefly, a kind of chagrin. Reaching across the seat, he tapped the latch up.

"Sorry," he claimed as Ryan sat down. "Didn't realize that door was locked."

Ryan felt a muscle in his jaw jump. He stared straight ahead, fists jammed in the pockets of his hoodie.

Cutting the wheels of the car, Trey pulled abruptly into traffic. The driver in the next lane hit his horn, cursing, as he swerved away. Trey grinned, flashed an answering index finger, and peered at Ryan. His smug smile wavered and then vanished altogether. "Seatbelt, little brother," he ordered.

Ryan snorted, a sound clotted with contempt and disbelief.

"Seatbelt," Trey insisted. He jerked the car to a stop at the curb. "I mean it, Ry. Put it on. Now."

"Why?" Ryan demanded. "What the hell does it matter?"

Trey's eyes blazed for a moment before he looked away. Rolling down the window he flung his cigarette, barely smoked, to the ground outside. When he turned back, his expression had shuttered. "It matters," he said, implacable. "Shit, Ry, just do it, all right? Put your damn seatbelt on."

"_Put your seatbelt on, Trey!" _

Ryan heard his own voice, pleading, and thin with terror. Instantly he was transported to the green Impala his father had owned in Fresno. He could feel the sticky bite of the duct tape that patched the upholstery, smell the mingled smoke, sweat, and fear, see Trey's ragged fingernails gouging the headrest in front of him.

"_Dad's driving crazy! Come on, Trey, we could crash!"_

_Beside him, Trey fumbled, ashen-faced, with a strap jammed into the door. It had been stuck there for weeks, since the time he had yanked it to its limit and let it snap back, a display of bravado that had dazzled Ryan at the time. _

"_I can't," Trey panted. "Mine doesn't work."_

_In front of them, Dawn squirmed, all smeared makeup and tangled curls, clutching her husband's arm. "Baby, slow down," she implored. "All right? Huh? Just take it easy, okay?"_

_The car lurched violently as it veered across two lanes, throwing Ryan against the door and slamming Trey hard into his side. "Shut the fuck up!" their father bellowed. "Who the hell you think you are, telling me how to drive? You wanna do it, bitch? Is that what you want? Fine, take the fucking wheel!"_

_He raised both hands, fists clenched. Released from any direction, the car careened like a raft in the rapids, pitching from the road to the shoulder and back again. Dawn screamed, shrinking back in her seat._

"_No, no, babe!" she cried. "I didn't mean anything, I swear! It's just, you know, when you get mad like this--"_

"_When I get mad? How about when you fucking make me mad? You gonna tell me you weren't comin' on to that asshole at the party? 'Cause I'll tell you what I saw, you worthless cunt--"_

"_I'm sorry! Dave, please, honey, just drive! All right, baby? Please?"_

_With a grunt, Dave wrenched the steering wheel to the left and the car jerked again. Ryan grabbed Trey, his small fingers fusing to his brother's wrist. At the same time he struggled to unlatch his seatbelt. It snapped open, the tiny, metallic sound cutting through Dawn's sobs, his dad's profane tirade. Pulling his brother close, Ryan stretched the strap across their laps. He held his breath until Trey managed to fasten it around them both._

_This time the click sounded like safety, like a door locking against their father's rage. Ryan's hand found Trey's and clasped it tight, a gesture he hadn't dared since he was three. He could feel the rise and fall of his brother's chest, the press of his palm, gritty and solid._

_It comforted him, knowing Trey was right there, breathing, beside him._

_They sat like that, crushed together, sharing the thin shelter of the seatbelt, until their father suddenly jammed on the brakes. The Impala squealed to a stop in the middle of the street, and he stormed out, slamming the door, spitting a strangled curse as he strode away. _

_Dawn whimpered. She glanced back, blinking eyes liquid with shamed apology._

"_Your dad just, he needs to cool off, okay boys? Okay?" she stammered. "You know how he gets when he's upset . . . I shouldn't have said anything . . ." Grimacing, she swiped a hand through her disheveled hair. The light changed and a horn blared behind them. Reluctantly, Dawn slid into the driver's seat, swaying slightly, not starting the car. Ryan followed her gaze, saw it fix, glazed and anxious, on his father's receding back._

"_Let's go, Mom," Trey urged, nudging her seat with his knee. Cars swerved around them and he pushed harder. _

_Dawn hesitated, biting her lip. "I don't know . . . Your dad won't like it if we don't wait for him."_

"_Shit, Mom, he left! He's not gonna come back! Can we just go home?"_

"_Trey?" Ryan whispered. His arm, sticky with sweat, glued itself to his brother's skin. "You mean dad's not gonna come back ever?"_

_Trey sighed. "I don't know, little brother." His voice scratched, tired and much too old. "But if he don't, we'll be okay. We got each other, right?"_

Ryan flinched, remembering.

Sometimes he longed for a kind of amnesia. On TV shows, it happened all the time: people forgot, started over, assumed completely different identities.

They never even seemed to appreciate what a gift that could be.

"Ry? You gonna put that thing on or what?"

Ryan swallowed the sour fluid that had pooled in his mouth. "Fine," he mumbled. He couldn't look at his brother. Staring straight ahead, he jerked the seatbelt across his body and snapped it in place.

Trey nodded, apparently satisfied, and pulled back into traffic.

Before they had gone two miles, Ryan realized why his brother's terse "No radio" had sounded like a warning: the car filled with silence. With no ambient sounds to distract them he and Trey couldn't hide. They couldn't escape each other's presence.

Ryan huddled so close to his door that its handle branded his forearm. Across the front seat, Trey rolled down the window, propping his elbow on the sill, letting gusts of stuffy heat push inside. Occasionally, random noises followed, but they only served to punctuate the quiet.

With each passing minute, it grew thicker, more heated.

The air began to simmer, like water about to boil. It teemed with bubbles, each one a demand or a defense or an accusation—some dangerous word ready to burst the surface, to spit itself out and scald them both.

Ryan wet his dry lips, knowing that he had to say something, but unsure what subject, if any, was safe. Trey's job? His life in—where, Los Vegas? What he'd been doing for the past year? Whether he had seen Turo? Eddie? Theresa?

Dawn?

It didn't matter what Ryan asked. In the end, every question was the same: _How could you?_

Or maybe not that exactly. Maybe, he thought, the real question was, _How could we?_

Beside him, Trey expelled a hissing breath and struck the steering wheel with the palm of his hand.

"Shit, LB. We gonna do this the whole fucking drive? You and me . . . we used to be able to talk."

Ryan studied a long scratch on the glove compartment. It spiked up and down twice, then flat-lined. "We used to be able to do a lot of things," he replied quietly.

"Yeah, we did." Rolling the window shut, Trey gunned the engine. His tone changed, reaching for a tarnished amity. "Hell, yeah. You remember that time at the pool hall? I was with, what's her name, Linda, and she hooked you up with her cousin? Shit, that night . . . Kinda forgot you weren't even fifteen yet, bro." Trey shook his head, his mouth curled in wry admiration. "The Atwood brothers in action--"

"Is that who we were?"

Trey's grip tightened on the steering wheel. "Goddamn it, Ry," he growled. "Will you give me a break here? I don't know what the hell I'm supposed to say to you."

There it was, that searing splatter of anger, despair and remorse. It blistered them both.

"I'm sorry," Ryan muttered. His fists clenched and released inside the pockets of his hoodie. Absently, he dug his left thumb into a tiny hole, fraying the forgiving threads of the fabric. "I don't know either."

The quiet encroached again. At last Ryan cleared his throat. "Thanks," he said. "For remembering my birthday. I didn't expect . . . anyway, thanks."

Shifting higher in his seat, Trey risked a quick glance over before he focused on the road again. "Yeah, Jess said she delivered the present I sent. Figured you'd probably just trash it." He paused, waiting. When Ryan said nothing, he prompted, "So . . . you keep it or what?" The words landed flat, not a question at all, as he jerked to a stop at a traffic light.

"I kept it."

"Yeah?" A note of surprise threaded through the word, twisted with something like gratitude. Fumbling for his pack of cigarettes, Trey extracted one. He let it jitter unlit as he spoke. "Kind of a stupid-ass gift, I suppose. You turn eighteen and I send you a toy car. What the fuck, right? . . . Hell, Ry, I don't know, I just thought it might . . ."

"I know what you thought." Ryan heard his voice echo, hollow and bereft. He swallowed hard and added, "It wasn't stupid, Trey."

The light changed, but Trey didn't step on the gas. He sat staring at Ryan, his brow furrowed and his eyes the bleached gray of a rainy twilight. "Listen, LB," he began.

"Don't."

Trey recoiled, a flicker of bitterness creasing his features.

"Don't call me that," Ryan amended. "I'm not LB."

A horn beeped behind them, three short, braying demands. Without his standard one-finger salute, Trey shifted and pulled through the intersection. "Yeah," he conceded. "I guess you're not anymore. But Ry, I didn't mean LB that way, not like 'little bitch.' I just wanted you to remember--"

"I remember all of it, Trey. Not just the—what happened last year. I remember everything."

"Good," Trey said slowly. "So if you do then maybe--"

He broke off at the incongruous trill of Ryan's phone. Barely muffled by his pocket, it warbled some bouncy, inane melody.

"Seth," Ryan muttered. "He keeps reprogramming the damn ring tone. Thinks it's funny. I, um, I promised to keep this on today." Flushing, he flipped open the display. "It's Kirsten. You mind if I . . ?"

"No, man. Go ahead. She'll worry if you don't answer, right?"

Ryan bit the corner of his lip. As he lifted the phone, he shrank toward the door, angling his body away from Trey. Even so, his side of the hushed conversation drifted to his brother.

"Hey, Kirsten . . . You did? I'm sorry. I didn't know. . . No, Sandy doesn't have to do that. I'll buy something for lunch . . . I will, I promise . . . Thanks, though, for going to all that trouble . . ." His gaze darted over to Trey. "I'm fine," he murmured. "Really. I can handle it." He took a deep breath, deliberately lifting his tone. "But tell Seth that he'll pay for messing with my ring tone . . . Okay. You too. And Kirsten, thanks again."

For a moment, Ryan held the phone balanced on his palm. Then he folded it shut, stuffed it back in his pocket and burrowed deeper into his hoodie. His eyes never strayed from the dismal landscape outside.

"Couldn't help overhearing, bro," Trey observed cautiously. He glanced at the rear view mirror before zipping into the left lane and speeding up. "Problem with the Cohens?"

"No. It's just . . . Kirsten had packed a lunch for me. I didn't take it, so . . ." Ryan shrugged, unwilling to admit her concern, the undeserved trust that left him chilled with guilt.

"She called to make sure you had something to eat?" Trey shook his head. He snorted, a breath equal parts envy and awed disbelief. "Damn, Ry. You're eighteen years old. You remember Mom ever bothering to do that, even when we were kids?"

Involuntarily, Ryan's eyes closed. He resisted, but his past was an undertow, dragging him deeper and further from shore: there he was perched next to Trey, their legs dangling off the edge of the faded couch in Fresno. Even his brother's feet didn't quite reach the ground. Neither one of them moved. Minutes before, they had been swinging their heels, bumping them against the upholstery in a giddy, pointless game. But then their dad had come home.

"_Stop it!" he barked. He swatted Trey's knee, hard, as he crossed the room. The blow rebounded, striking Ryan's thigh. "I already got a fucking headache. You little shits have to make it worse?"_

_Instantly they stilled, their skin tingling an alarm._

_Dave collapsed into his favorite chair. "Hey, Dawn! You getting' dinner in here or what?"_

"_It's all ready! I'm comin', babe!"_

_A bag tucked under her elbow, Dawn rushed into the living room, balancing a heaping bowl. Her smile blinked, neon-bright and uncertain, as she arranged the food on a TV tray in front of her husband. Picking up the remote, she changed the channel and stepped back, a lieutenant awaiting orders. She never even glanced at her sons._

"_What the hell is this? Chili again?"_

"_Sorry, hon." Dawn shuffled in place, flustered and defensive. One finger twirled an errant strand of hair. "I know we already had it this week, but there wasn't much else in the house. See, though, here's your favorite corn chips. And I got one of those pies you like for dessert—apple, with all the crumbs on top?" _

"_That's something, I guess," Dave conceded. "But whaddya expect me to do--eat this slop without hot sauce? And where the hell is my beer?" _

_Dawn scurried back to the kitchen. She returned with two bottles and a plate for herself_. _Oblivious to Ryan and Trey waiting, motionless, across the room, she nestled on the arm of their father's chair. "You need anything else, babe?" she murmured. Dave grunted and she stuttered a laugh, threading her fingers through the hair curled over his collar. He twitched, jerking away. "Aw, come on. Relax," Dawn crooned. "You had a tough day, huh? Well, you know I can make you feel better . . ." Dipping her head, she slurped a hungry kiss behind her husband's ear._

_Both boys watched silently. At last Trey got up. He beckoned to Ryan who padded after him into the kitchen. A rich, spicy aroma filled the room but when Trey, standing on tiptoe, checked the pot on the back burner, it had been scraped nearly clean. Only a crust of sauce, slightly burnt, remained around the rim._

"_Nothing left. Sorry, Ry," Trey sighed. With practiced efficiency, he opened a bag of limp bread and reached for the handle of the cupboard. "You like peanut butter anyway, right?"_

_Ryan nodded. He didn't, not really, but he knew that the answer didn't matter at all. _

Thinking back, Ryan realized that when he ate--when he was cared for at all--during those lean years of childhood, it was almost always because of his brother.

Rarely his mother.

Never his dad.

He glanced at Trey the way he did when they were small, with automatic apology. "Dawn--Mom--she didn't think that way," he admitted.

"Fucking right she didn't. Only thing she ever worried about was keeping dad happy. Or, hell, whatever other asshole she was screwing--"

"Trey!" Ryan choked.

"It's just . . ." Trey blew a bemused breath. "Shit, man, Mrs. Cohen packed you a lunch. Okay, it's not like I know her well, but rich and classy as she is? And she takes the time to do that for you, just like you were still a kid—hell, _her_ little kid . . ."

Ryan ducked his head. Inside his pocket, the hole grew as his thumbnail sawed through more loose threads. "She shouldn't have done it," he whispered. "I shouldn't even be living with the Cohens now."

Trey peered over sharply. "Why not?" he demanded. "Something going on there?" His voice had the flinty edge Ryan recalled from playgrounds and schoolyards, too often from their own home. _"Somebody messing with you, little brother?"_ Somebody, he meant, besides Trey himself.

Ryan never said yes, but Trey never trusted his denials. Even now his eyes narrowed to slits, sharp and steely-gray.

"No," Ryan replied. He wrenched his hands out of his pockets. Pushing up the cuffs of his hoodie, he stared at his watch, the thick leather band snug around his wrist, the accusing digits of the time and date. "It's just . . ."

"What?"

The car sped forward as Trey pulled onto the highway. He gunned the engine, swerving adroitly through slower traffic. His eyes never left the road, but Ryan could still feel them boring through his defenses.

Despite his reluctance to answer, somehow he couldn't resist.

"You said it yourself. I'm eighteen," he explained. His face set, suddenly a carving of itself. "I'm not the Cohens' responsibility anymore. Now it's like I'm just there because . . . they're good people. And they know I don't have anywhere else to go." He paused, gripping his own wrist. The watch face disappeared under his palm, but Ryan could still sense it reproaching him. His next words emerged faint, barely stirring the air. "I should leave anyway."

"Leave?" Trey snorted, shaking his head in disgust. "The fuck, Ry? You got a home with a family like the Cohens--why the hell would you give that up?" Swerving around a beat-up dump truck, he whipped back into the right lane. "If this is one of your goddamn martyr acts--"

Ryan blinked, startled first by his own confession, and then by Trey's sneering contempt. Between one breath and the next, a surge of rage displaced his diffidence. "That's how you see it? Shit, of course it is. You figure I should just take advantage of the Cohens forever, right? Treat them the way you would--use them, bleed them dry, grab things they never offered--" Ryan stopped suddenly, unable to breathe.

Trey's fingers opened, flexed, and slammed shut again on the steering wheel. "We back to that?" he gritted. "Fuck you, Ry. At least I'm trying here. I am trying to be your brother again, but we got no chance if--"

"If? What?" Ryan demanded.

They both knew the answer, but neither one was willing to put it into words.

The air in the car grew thick and rancid. Trey took several furious drags on his cigarette, stabbing the cylinder into his mouth and yanking it back out again. "Look," he ground out finally. "What I was tryin' to say . . . the Cohens aren't just good people. They love you, Ry. And you fucking want to throw that away? Shit, you do, and what do you have left? Mom, our asshole father and me? Yeah, that's a brilliant trade-off." He flung his cigarette butt out the window. All his anger seemed to drain out with it. "I thought you were supposed to be smarter than that."

Ryan's eyes stung. He shut them, every muscle clenched while he searched for a reply. Twice, he formed Trey's name before he finally said it out loud.

"It's not a trade. And I'm not throwing anything--" he began. Whatever else he meant to add was lost. A bang split the air, sharp enough to be a gunshot, and the car lurched violently. The passenger side dipped and swung around, like the careening tail in a game of crack the whip.

"Shit!" Trey hissed. He grabbed the steering wheel with both hands. Muttering curses, he coaxed the vehicle off the highway. It protested, shimmying and sparking against the pavement. "Yeah, that's what we need. A fucking blowout. Angie better have a goddamn spare in the trunk."

Almost before his door was open, Trey vaulted out of the car. He circled around to the passenger side, his heels crunching gravel, and stared furiously at the exposed rim. "Get outta the car, Ry."

Ryan didn't move.

"Ry, what the fuck! Move, man! I can't change the tire with you still in there."

Trey waited. When Ryan still didn't stir, he wrenched his brother's door open. "What the hell do you think you're doing?" he snapped.

Except for a shudder, Ryan didn't respond. His face was ashen, his eyes open and glazed, his chest heaving as if all the air had suddenly been sucked away.

"Oh, shit," Trey breathed. "Ry? Ryan? You all right?" He hesitated, shifting from foot to foot and raking a hand through his own hair. Then he reached across to unlatch Ryan's seatbelt, easing it back over his body. "The tire blew, that's all," he murmured. He clasped Ryan's shoulder, shaking him slightly. "Come on, man. Come on. You can get out. It's okay."

With a kind of awkward gentleness, Trey slid an arm around his brother's waist, propelling him out of the car and toward the sparse shade of a nearby tree. Hot, hazy air engulfed them. Trey swiped at sweat beading on his forehead, but Ryan remained numb. He moved as if in a stupor, not rousing until his back touched the rough bark and Trey started to ease him to the ground.

"No!" he objected, starting. "I'm all right. I don't need . . ."

"Sure you don't," Trey scoffed. He kept one hand cupped firmly around Ryan's neck. "Just sit down, little brother. Put your head between your knees and breathe."

"_Put your head between your knees and breathe, Ry!"_

"_Can't," Ryan tried to say, but the word strangled in a hiccup. Dawn's shrill sobs, barely muffled, pulsed against the bathroom door. They spiraled higher and higher. "Dad," he managed finally. "The cops—where—?"His face reddened as he gasped for air. _

_Trey wrung out a washrag and sponged Ryan's forehead. He left the water running to drown out their mother's cries. "To jail, I guess. Now shut the hell up and breathe. You're scarin' me here."_

"_But. Dad--"_

"_Dad can go to hell. He's not worth this, LB."_

_Ryan rounded on his brother. His eyes blazed the protest that he couldn't voice._

"_He's not," Trey insisted. Unconsciously, he touched a welt on his calf before he wet the cloth again. "Come on, Ry. You know it's true. So the cops arrest him. So what? Maybe now we won't have to worry about getting' our asses kicked all the time."_

_Ryan squirmed away from the dripping rag. "Sometimes Dad's nice," he choked painfully. "Remember? Like when he took us to see** Jurassic Park**?"_

"_Big deal. Ry. Twice a year maybe he takes us to some stupidass movie and buys us popcorn." Trey bit the jagged edge of his thumbnail, ripping it off with his teeth. He spat the shard into the toilet. "It don't make him a real dad."_

"_But." Ryan's eyes filled and he blinked, hard and fast. "He has to be, Trey. He's the only one we got . . ."His voice became a shamed whisper. "What if he never comes home? Don't you want him to?"_

_Trey leaned against the rusty sink, absently rubbing circles on Ryan's back. For a long time, he didn't reply. When he finally spoke, the words weren't an answer Ryan understood. "You care too much about stuff, you know that, LB?" he said. "You gotta stop doing that. It just makes everything worse."_

"Here. I found this. Maybe it'll help."

Ryan scrubbed his face and forced himself to look up. Trey was loping from the car, uncapping a lukewarm bottle of Sprite. He thrust it brusquely into his brother's hands.

"Feeling better?"

Without taking a drink, Ryan swallowed. He tipped his head back, eyes closed, and nodded. "I'm fine," he muttered. "Sorry."

Trey frowned. Crouching nearby, but not close enough to intrude, he studied Ryan, the way his lashes fluttered, his throat muscles contracted and released. "So I figure, what?" he prompted warily. "You had some kind of flashback or something? The tire blowing like that reminded you of the accident?"

A tremor flickered across Ryan's face. "Trey--" he warned. The plastic bottle wheezed in his grasp.

"Relax, man. I get it. You can't talk to me. But shit, don't try to pull that 'I'm tough, I can handle it' crap. Not with this. Look what it's doing to you." Trey picked up a stick and jabbed it into the baked earth. "Have you talked to anybody? Mr. Cohen maybe?"

Ryan's grip tightened. He opened his eyes, staring through the hazy sky. His bleak gaze revealed nothing but emptiness. "What is there to say? Marissa's dead. I was with her. Hell, I was at the wheel. And I survived."

Almost unconsciously, Trey edged a little closer. "That's not a sin, Ry—living," he observed. He rocked the stick back and forth, taking a few final drags before he ground his cigarette into the dirt. Then he peered at his brother. "You should try doing it again."

"Don't lecture me, Trey!" Ryan spat. His voice was raw, and Trey winced, listening. "You weren't there. You don't know--"

Trey shook his head. "Didn't need to be there," he said ruefully. He stood, pulling out the twig he had planted and flinging it into a ditch. "Told you before, Ry. I know you . . . Anyway, just . . . think about it, okay? I gotta change the damn tire."

Slowly, somberly, Ryan lowered his chin. He watched in pensive silence while Trey trudged to the car, rooted inside the trunk for the donut and jack, and pulled out a grimy lug wrench. Then he pushed himself to his feet.

"Hey." He coughed, hoarse and hesitant. "Need any help?"

Startled, Trey lost hold of the spare. "Yeah," he replied, squinting dubiously. "If you're sure you want to . . ."

Ryan caught the rolling tire and brought it back to the car. He knelt by the flat, reaching a tentative finger touch the exposed rim. It singed his skin, but he didn't pull away until Trey crouched beside him.

"Look, Ry--" he began.

"Why are you going to meet dad?" Ryan blurted. It was a desperate question, dredged up to forestall any talk of the accident, but suddenly he needed the answer. "You hated him, a lot more than I did. Why not just hang up when he called?"

Trey shrugged, kneading the back of his neck. "Fuck if I know," he admitted wryly. With a grunt, he removed the hubcap and handed it to Ryan. Then he loosened the lug nuts and slid the jack into place. Limp shreds of rubber flapped around his hands. "I guess it's just . . . When I got out of jail I called you and you came. Even after all the shit I put you through, you showed up."

Ryan flinched, flushing with guilt. "Trey--" he objected.

"I got another chance," Trey continued. He spoke as he worked, steadily, not looking around, oblivious to Ryan's discomfiture. "Yeah, I know I fucked it up, but what the hell, at least I got a shot. So I figured, maybe Dad should have one too . . . Wanna hand me the donut there, Ry?"

Automatically, Ryan rolled the spare tire over. Then he stepped to the side, assuming his place as Trey's partner, handing him tools, balancing the donut as he fixed it in place, helping to lever the stubborn hubcap back onto the rim.

It felt familiar and right, working together. Ryan wondered how that was even possible.

At last they finished. Trey stood up, rolling his shoulders and shading his eyes against the sun. "Shit," he groaned. "What time is it anyway? Ry? You got a watch, right?"

Ryan's jaw tensed. He nodded, pushing his cuff up reluctantly. The watch face glared at him, and he hid it again after a quick, furtive glance. "About quarter to one."

"Damn." Trey whistled, fumbling for a cigarette. "We're gonna be late."

"_Trey? Ryan? Get out here! You think I got time to waste, waiting for you little shits? Move it! Now!"_

Ryan peered at his brother. Trey's tone had been bland, almost indolent, but he moved clumsily, dropping his lighter, thumbing the thing six times before he made it spark. Looking at him, Ryan knew: they both heard the same angry echoes, saw the same stormy image of their father's face, clung to the same fragile, fraying hope.

_We used to be able to talk._

For a moment, he ached to say something—anything—to Trey, but in the end Ryan just slid back into the car.

This time, he fastened his seatbelt as soon as he closed the door.

TBC


	3. Chapter 3

Blood Ties 3

**Blood Ties 3**

Trey strode back from the convenience store, alternately swigging a Budweiser and then knuckling his mouth dry. He paused for a moment, eyes slit against the glare of the sun, before he swung himself back into the car.

"Sure you don't want anything, Ry? Last chance to fuel up before we meet dear old dad."

Ryan chewed his lower lip. It was chapped, etched with lines of white skin, and his tongue seemed to snag on it when he replied. "Nah," he lied. "I'm good."

Trey shrugged. "If you say so."

In one long, grateful gulp, he drained the last of his beer. Then, with a flick of his wrist, he lobbed the can out the window. It skidded off the lip of the trashcan and smashed into the concrete below. The sound, sharp and final as a broken promise, made them both flinch.

"Shit," Trey muttered around a rusty laugh. "Gotta work on my j, I guess. Used to be able to make those shots." He turned, as if to share the joke, but Ryan didn't reply, didn't stir, didn't even appear to be listening. Trey's expression darkened, smudged with disappointment. "Course," he added caustically, "I used to be able to do lots of things."

Ryan stiffened. He glanced over, startled, as an immediate echo permeated the car: his brother's bitter complaint, only an hour earlier—_"We used to be able to talk"_—and his own distant, lonely reply, _"We used to be able to do a lot of things."_

His eyes smoldered with accusation.

As though scalded by that silent reproach, Trey flushed. His cheeks burned a slow, dull red that Ryan remembered from their childhood. It was his brother's last little-boy reflex, an involuntary admission that he had been caught in some minor misdeed, cutting school or stealing Dawn's smokes, or forging her signature on a report card.

The color was half defense, half shame, wholly revealing. As they grew older, as his crimes became more frequent, more brazen and practiced, Trey learned to master it. Eventually his face set in shades of constant defiance, and he gave nothing away except his anger.

Until now.

That stain resurfacing on his brother's skin told Ryan that Trey heard the refrain too:

"_We used to be able to do a lot of things."_

And there they were again, survivors of an inferno, still picking through the ashes of their relationship for memories that weren't charred, words that didn't sting, something—anything—that they could still recognize and touch without pain.

There had been those few moments, though, by the side of the road. Ryan blinked hard, remembering.

Trey had helped him from the car. Brought him a tepid Sprite. Kept one calloused hand, firm and familiar, around his shoulders until Ryan was sitting safely against the tree.

They had even talked. Not much, but a little.

They had changed the blown-out tire together. Working in rhythm.

The way they used to do.

"You never had a j," Ryan blurted suddenly.

Trey's head snapped up in surprise. "What?"

"You could do that fancy behind-the-back dribble, but you never had any jump shot at all."

A shaft of sunlight illuminated Trey's face, and his lips twitched up before tipping into a transparent scowl. "That is a goddamn lie, little brother! Just because you beat me in one lousy game of horse--"

"Ten," Ryan corrected. "Ten in a row." Ducking his head, he sketched a complacent shrug. "Would have been more, except you quit playing."

Trey jiggled his elbow almost, but not quite, letting it bump Ryan's arm. "Hey," he protested, "I was letting you win! You wanted to impress Theresa, but you were such a pathetic little runt that I figured you needed all the help you could get."

A gust of warm air blew through Ryan's open window, redolent of salt, grease, and the smell of baked earth. It reminded him of Chino when that place had been all he knew of home and Trey had been all he knew of family. He glanced sideways at the driver's seat, allowing himself the faintest of smiles.

His brother caught it like a pass on the basketball court. Instantly Trey relaxed, slouching in his seat, one hand loose on the steering wheel. He smothered his grin beneath a practiced growl. "I took pity on your sorry ass, Ry."

"Right," Ryan scoffed. "Only Theresa had to leave for church after the second game. And you?" He shook his head, sighing wryly. "Still had no j."

"Yeah, well, only because I couldn't follow through, bro! It woulda been different if my stupid shoulder hadn't been fucked up that day. Goddamn security guard--"

Trey stopped. Just like that, his brittle smile imploded.

Ryan flinched in response. "Yeah," he murmured, fisting his hands deep in his pockets. "I remember."

"_What's wrong with your shoulder, Trey?"_

He had been ten, alone in the stuffy house when Trey had come storming in late one afternoon. His face had been pinched and he had flung his backpack to the floor, yelping in pain as the strap yanked over his head.

Ryan's breath quickened, the same way it had done that day, and he swallowed the familiar taste of fear. He didn't want this--another memory wrenching him into his past.

Now was really all that he could bear.

Still, in his mind, he heard himself ask again, _"Trey? What happened? What's wrong?"_ and the whole scene played out, insistent and vivid.

_Eyes glazed with worry, he watched his brother struggle out of his t-shirt. Trey hissed as he eased the fabric off his body. When he peeled the cloth away and sank down on the couch, Ryan saw mottled fingerprints around his brother's bicep. A large bruise extended upwards, scoring the flesh with streaks of ominous yellow-black._

"_Trey?" The word skidded, slick with anxiety._

"_It's nothin'."_

"_But--"_

"_Shit, Ry! What are you, deaf? I said it's nothin'!"_

_Ryan recoiled. For a moment, he hesitated, scanning the room for some signal, his fingers clenching in time with his erratic pulse. Then he darted to the kitchen. He returned clutching a plastic bag of ice cubes. Placing it precisely over the angry bruise, he asked, "Was it him, Trey? Did he do this to you?" _

_His voice was wary, almost a whisper._

'_He,' was a code word. It meant only one thing: Dawn's boyfriend of the day. _

_Most of the time, Ryan and Trey didn't bother with their names. What was the point? The men were there and then gone. Besides, no matter what they looked like, in every way that mattered they were the same, all of them large and loud and demanding, all filling the house with their looming presence, their smell, their fierce appetites. _

_All claiming ownership of everything inside._

_All of them distorted images of Frank Atwood._

"_Nah," Trey growled. "It wasn't him."_

_Ryan waited. When his brother said nothing more, he backed up, tense. "Who then?" he demanded._

"_It fucking doesn't matter." Trey darted a glance upwards. Ryan's gaze blazed a fierce blue in reply. "Let it go, LB," he sighed. "Shit, it's not like you can do anything about it."_

"_Yes, I can." Ryan's tone tightened, unyielding as his fists. "I'm not a little kid, Trey! I'm your brother!"_

_With a stifled groan, Trey rolled over to face him. As he did, Ryan stood taller. His spine stiffened, and the baby curves of his cheeks flattened into hard planes. _

"_Damn," Trey drawled with reluctant admiration. "You really are growin' up, aren't you, Atwood?"_

_Ryan lifted his chin. "Yeah," he said. "I am. So tell me."_

"_Hell, bro. I appreciate you havin' my back, but this . . ." Wincing, Trey shook his head. "It was the asshole security guards at school, all right? I should fuckin' sue them, but it's not like we'll ever be able to afford a lawyer. Or like anybody would give a damn anyway." _

_That was true, Ryan knew. It must be true. Trey had told him so often enough._

_No matter what happened to them, nobody else would ever really care. _

"_What did you--what did they do?" he asked._

_Trey's eyes narrowed. "Damn it, LB! It's not always my fault!"_

"_I didn't mean . . ." Ryan began. He wavered, unable to finish the lie. "Just tell me, all right?"_

_For a moment, Trey simply stared at him, his gaze flinty and gray. Then he blew out a long breath and jerked his head toward his battered backpack. With instant understanding, Ryan dug through a jumble of paper and pulled out a wadded baggie. Wordlessly, he rolled a neat, practiced joint. _

_His eyes blinked a mute apology as he handed it to his brother._

_Only after he had sucked in three languid drags did Trey bother to respond. _

"_I'm failin' a few classes," he explained carelessly. Peering over Ryan's head, he expelled a ragged stream of smoke. "Okay, maybe more than a few. What the fuck ever. So the guidance counselor, Mr. Asshat, he calls me into his office for a pep talk. He gives me all the usual crap about how I've got to apply myself, work for the future, not throw away all my chances. Whatever the hell those are supposed to be. You know, 'You've got to have a dream, Atwood'—like anybody is stupid enough to believe that hallway poster shit."_

_A slow, shamed flush crept across Ryan's cheeks, bright as the words surrounding his classroom door._

'_If you can dream it, you can do it!'_

'_Aim for the moon! Even if you miss, you'll land among the stars!'_

'_You have a CHANCE as long as you make the right CHOICE!'_

_He didn't believe them either, not really, all those smug mottos emblazoned across rockets or stars or finish lines or rainbows._

_Only sometimes, still, Ryan couldn't help hoping . . ._

_Embarrassed, he dipped his head. Hiding his telltale eyes behind his lashes, he focused on the frayed ends of his shoelaces. One of them was loose, he noticed, ready to slip out of its lopsided bow. He wanted to retie it, but he didn't dare move._

"_And then." Trey inhaled again. His expression clouded, hazy as the smoke that he reluctantly released. Everything tightened: his voice, his fingers around the slim cylinder, the grim line of his mouth, the rigid set of his jaw. "Then the prick starts talkin' about dad." _

_Ryan sucked in a harsh breath. _

_Dad. _

_Of course. Of course he would be involved. _

_It didn't seem to matter how many miles separated Frank Atwood from his sons. There was always a line, like a charged filament, sizzling invisibly across the distance._

_Somehow, every hurt connected to their father. _

_Ryan dropped onto the couch and scooted one hand close to his brother's knee. With the other, he picked a stray piece of stale popcorn off the coffee table. Unconsciously, he crushed it between his fingers, letting the crumbs dribble into an ashtray. He didn't even check to see where they landed._

_Beside him, Trey continued, oblivious. _

"_He goes on and on about how I should learn from my father's rotten example, how even though he screwed up his life, I don't have to do the same thing. I don't have to wind up a loser like him--" With a strangled snarl, Trey hurled his icepack to the floor. "That asshole called our dad a loser, LB!"_

_Ryan's thumb pressed remorselessly into the ashtray, grinding the greasy crumbs into dust. "Did you hit him, Trey?"_

_It wasn't even a question. _

"_Shit, Ry! What was I supposed to do? Okay, yeah, I know he's a fuck-up, but hell, he's our father, right? Right? He's still our dad. Nobody gets to talk shit about him!"_

_Ryan scrubbed his fingertips on his jeans. When he pulled them away, a faint oily smear marred the faded denim. "You do," he said quietly. "You talk shit about dad all the time."_

_For a moment, Trey's eyes glinted, sharp and metallic. Then he sighed, shook his head, and held out the joint. Ryan accepted it diffidently. He hesitated, his fingers clamped around the slick paper, his eyes locked on the damp, mouth- pinched end. _

"_Go ahead." A challenge underscored the curt words. "You're wastin' it, Ry. What the hell are you waiting for?"_

_Ryan ducked his head. Eyes veiled warily, he inhaled, swirling the sweet-acrid smoke with his tongue, releasing it on a long, empty breath. He could hear Trey's voice, distant and weary._

"_It's different with family, LB. You gotta know that by now. No matter how fucked up they are--shit, no matter how much they fuck you over--you can never turn your back on blood."_

Something stung, and Ryan pulled his hands out of his pockets. He opened them slowly, staring bemused at the small, angry crescents his nails had imprinted across his palms. They throbbed, first white and then red.

"We should have had a rematch."

Startled, Ryan blinked and closed his fists again. "What?"

"After my shoulder healed." Trey shrugged, trying to recover their lost amity. "We shoulda played again."

"We couldn't," Ryan replied tonelessly. "You left. Before Mom could find out you got expelled. Remember? You just took off."

Trey's jaw moved. "Ry--" He ground to a stop, and the faint belligerence in his tone seeped away. "Okay, yeah, you're right," he admitted. "I did." Grimacing, he shifted in his seat. His foot inadvertently pumped the gas pedal and the car jerked forward. It almost hit the minivan just ahead before Trey managed to veer into the next lane. "Shit!" he snapped. He gritted his teeth for a moment and then repeated more quietly, "Shit, Ry. I know I shouldn't have left you like that, but it was just for a while, until Mom cooled off. Her and that asshole she was with back then. But hey, I came back. I just . . . Look, I know I cut out a lot, but I always came back for you, right? Didn't I?"

"Yeah," Ryan admitted, staring straight ahead. "I guess you did, Trey."

The brothers lapsed into silence. On the dashboard, a digital display ticked off the minutes, the miles, time and space stretching between and behind them, in figures as red as blood.

Trey lit a cigarette, his fingers fumbling slightly, as the light changed and he braked to a stop. He coughed, clearing a path through the dense quiet, before he spoke. "So, listen, Ry, I've been thinking. You suppose Dad found God or something while he's been in the joint? Cause damned if I can figure out why he wants to see us after the shitload of nothing we got from him all these years. No letters, no phone calls, not even a lousy birthday card."

There was no answer for that. It was true.

Those first months, with Dawn in a stupor of sodden self-pity, they had waited expectantly. Of course, Trey had feigned indifference and belittled Ryan's naïve confidence.

_Shit, LB,_ he had scoffed, _you still believe in Santa Claus and the Tooth Fairy too? Dad's gone for good this time. He's not gonna call. Who the hell wants to talk to him anyway?_

Still, he had rifled through the mail every day and scrambled to grab the phone each time it rang.

Despite his brother's bravado, Ryan knew they had both made the same wish: for some sign that, wherever he was, Frank Atwood remembered that he had sons.

Remembered, and maybe even missed them.

Maybe hoped to return someday and be a real dad.

Only no sign ever came.

Gradually their flimsy hope splintered, whittled away by time, disappointment, and, finally, impotent anger.

It began to feel as if they had never had a father.

Ryan shook his head, shoving away the old hurt. "He wants something, that's all," he predicted. Unconsciously, he touched the phone in his pocket, like a talisman. "That's when Atwoods show up, right? When they want something?"

_They._

He didn't mean to say "they." He meant "we." After all, he was an Atwood too.

Ryan mouthed a correction, but it was too late. There was no way to reclaim the word. Ashamed, his eyes flickered over to Trey and then back down to his lap.

He couldn't tell if his brother had heard or, if he had, if he even cared anymore.

What was one more betrayal when they could already count so many between them?

"Yeah," Trey conceded flatly. "I guess that's true, pretty much . . ." He flicked a dead fly off the dashboard, his mouth twisting as he watched it fall. "Look, Ry, I know nothing's right between us. Hell, I don't know how it can ever be right again. But whatever goes down with dad, whatever he wants--" Trey's jaw worked. He paused and then spat out a turbulent rush of words. "It's you and me, okay? Like--" The light changed and abruptly, almost violently, he pulled back into traffic. "Like we were before."

_Before_, Ryan thought.

Before what exactly?

Before their father went to jail?

Before Dawn traded her sons for a bottle and a dangerous parade of transient boyfriends?

Before Trey, bitter and bereft of hope, became someone Ryan didn't recognize, just one more Atwood who hurt people he loved?

Before Ryan himself changed so drastically?

He didn't even know how it had happened, but at some point, Ryan admitted, he had just stopped: stopped trying to remember the rare good times, stopped imagining reunions and redemption, stopped trusting anyone who had once been his family.

With a start, he realized that Trey was still speaking. It took Ryan a moment to decode the low, intense words.

"I mean it, Ry. Swear to God."

Without looking, Trey pulled another beer from the six-pack on the floor, wedged it between his knees and popped the top open. Foam gurgled out of the opening, like surf breaking over rocks. "To the brotherhood!" he declared. Tipping the can, he gulped a mouthful, and, eyes still riveted on the road, extended the beer sideways. His tone was like old parchment, thin, nearly transparent, worn sepia-brown around the edges. "What do you say, Ry? We in this together?"

Trey's question summoned another, distant but still urgent.

"_What do you say, Trey? Can I? Please?"_

Ryan gritted his teeth. Just like that, he could hear his own desolate entreaty, feel the scabbed surface of their bedroom door under his palms.

But why, he wondered. Why did everything today seem to hurtle him back through time? And why couldn't he resist the pull of those memories?

Wordlessly, he snatched the beer from Trey. The bitter liquid didn't quench his thirst, didn't wash away his thoughts or the sick taste in his mouth, but he drank anyway.

"_Come on, Trey," his childish treble pleaded. "Let me in. I wanna join too."_

"_Don't be stupid, LB. Go play with your own friends. Anyway, you and me are brothers already."_

"_But not the same way. Not special like you and Cody and Omar and Jamal." _

_He peeked around his brother's stolid body. Trey was blocking their door with one hip, but through the slit Ryan could see the boys inside. All long legs and cool nonchalance, they sprawled on the floor, passing a bottle from hand to hand. "To the brotherhood!" each of them crowed before they gulped a mouthful. _

_When the whiskey returned to Trey, he did the same thing, flourishing the bottle in the air like a flag on a battlefield._

_Ryan clamped his teeth on his lower lip to keep it from trembling._

"_I want to be part of the brotherhood too," he insisted._

_Trey scowled. A familiar 'No,' had already formed in the pinch of his mouth when Omar abruptly called, "What the hell, Trey. If the kid wants to join, I say we let him."_

"_Shit, man, he's too young!" Jamal protested. "What is he, like four? I'm not in this to be no goddamn babysitter."_

"_Six," Ryan muttered. "I'm six. Almost" _

"_See? He's almost six!" Omar laughed. "He can be like our mascot. Be good for a look-out too, maybe. Or you know, a decoy. We should let him join."_

"_Yeah?" Trey chewed his cheek dubiously. He shifted his weight, and the door swung open just enough so that Ryan managed to squeeze inside._

"'_Course," Cody drawled from under the window. "We're blood brothers here, Ry. Know what that means? We'll have to cut you." Casually, he flipped a switchblade open, holding up his own thumb in warning. It was smeared crimson, still oozing slow drops from a puncture wound. "You still wanna?"_

_Ryan blanched even as he nodded. "Yeah," he whispered. The word wavered, uncertain, and he rushed to shore it up. "Yeah, I do." _

_Taking a deep breath, he extended his fist, thumb raised resolutely. Cody snickered. Then, shrugging, he grabbed Ryan's wrist, squeezing it vice-tight. He was about to jab the blade down when Trey wrenched it away from him._

"_Shit, C-Dog" he growled. "Gimme that. I'll do it."_

_Spinning them both around, Trey dropped onto the bed, one hand holding the grimy knife, the other hovering above Ryan's shoulder. For a moment, he hesitated, assessing his brother's pale face, the unblinking blue eyes that peered from beneath his tumbled bangs, the determined set of his chin. _

_Ryan sensed the question that Trey didn't ask. There was a silent reminder in his brother's gaze too: I'm givin' you a chance here. Don't embarrass me._

"_Go ahead," he said staunchly. "I'm ready."_

_Trey blew out a breath that ruffled his own unkempt hair. Eyes unreadable and locked on Ryan's, he swiped the tip of the blade across his jeans. Then, swiftly, he swung it down, piercing the flesh of the proffered thumb._

_It didn't hurt, Ryan told himself as he watched the blood well. It didn't. Not really. Not as much as being shut out by a closed door, not as much as being dismissed as too soft or too young._

_Definitely not as much as being ignored._

"_What now?" he asked, only a little hoarsely._

_In answer, Trey pinched his own thumb again, reopening the recent wound. He rubbed his blood roughly into Ryan's. Then, taking his brother by the shoulders, he steered him around the circle so that Omar and Cody could do the same. _

_Jamal was slouched in the far corner of the room. When they reached him, the boy leaned back, arms crossed, his head cocked to one side. A malicious smirk played around his lips and his hands were tucked firmly under his elbows. Uncertain what to do, Ryan glanced up at Trey. His brother was glaring, a savage look he knew to mean, "Just do it, you fucker." Jamal must have recognized the message too. With a resentful scowl, he grabbed Ryan's thumb and mashed it violently against his own. Just before he let go, he pinched the skin, hard._

_Ryan expected the gesture. He didn't flinch._

"_There," Trey declared. "Now you're blood brothers with all of us. Satisfied, LB?"_

"_I . . . guess," Ryan replied. _

_He waited, sure that he should feel different. Older, maybe, or tougher or braver. At least, he hoped for a surge of belonging, some sense that he fit with Trey and his friends. Nothing changed, though. All he felt was the throbbing of his thumb and the shameful wish that he could suck the pain away. Swallowing hard, he managed a half-hearted smile. "What do blood brothers do?"_

_Omar shrugged. "Same things all brothers do. Look out for each other. Have each other's backs." Grinning, he hoisted the bottle of whiskey. It was damp, its neck smeared with faint traces of blood and sweat from its passage around the group. "Gonna drink to the brotherhood, Ry? Everybody else did." _

_Instinctively, Ryan started to check with Trey. Then he stopped and made himself answer, "Sure."_

_He had just touched the rim to his lips when the front door slammed._

"_Trey?" their father's voice yelled. "Ryan? Where the hell are you kids? Why isn't the garbage out on the curb, huh? Didn't I tell you to do that by the time I got home? I fucking gotta do everything here?"_

"_Shit," Trey breathed. "He's early." _

_Instantly, as if the words were a signal, Omar and Jamal and Cody scrambled to their feet and climbed out the window. Trey started to follow. He was already straddling the ledge, ready to vault outside when he paused. "Come on, Ry!" he urged. "Don't just stand there! Move!"_

_Ryan took one step. Then he froze again as his father bellowed, "You boys hear me? I'm sick of comin' home to your shit!"_

_Heavy footsteps sounded in the hall._

_Trey gritted his teeth and slipped both legs outside. Over his shoulder he hissed one last frantic "Ry!" but the doorknob turned before Ryan could make himself move._

_Shaking his head helplessly, Trey disappeared out the window. At the same moment, Frank strode into the room. Ryan swiveled around, quivering like a trapped animal. His fingers still clutched the forgotten whiskey. _

"_You didn't hear me callin' you, boy? I expect you to answer when--" Frank broke off. Sudden disbelief tightened his features, and his voice dropped, molten and ominous. "What the fuck, Ryan? Is that my booze? You little shit. You stealin' my liquor now?"_

_Ryan's eyes widened. He stared at his hand, wrapped traitorously around the bottle's neck. "I . . ." he gulped. It was barely a fragment of sound broken by a desperate breath. _

_Dimly, through the fraught silence, he could hear a muffled scuff of feet on the driveway outside._

_His blood brothers, waiting to hear if he would betray them._

_Frank stepped closer to Ryan. Taking his time, he unlatched his belt and slid it from around his waist. It slithered, a trained snake in his hand, the metal prong flicking like a malevolent tongue._

"_You wanna explain this to me, boy? You got ten seconds . . . Nine . . . Eight."_

_The bottle slipped in Ryan's sweaty grasp and he set it, very carefully, on the nightstand._

"_Seven," his father intoned, stony and cold. "Last chance, Ry. You got something you want to say to me?"_

"_No, sir," Ryan whispered. "I mean . . . I'm sorry. I won't do it again."_

_Frank's mouth curled in disgust. "Damn right you won't," he snarled. "You think bein' your mama's baby means you can get away with shit like this? Shoulda known you'd turn out just like your damn brother. Grab your ankles, Ryan. Do it, boy! Now!"_

_The last word struck like a lash, and Ryan swallowed an involuntary whimper. Bending over, he buried his face against his knees, the way he had seen Trey do so many times before. _

_He willed himself to be quiet. _

_That was important, he knew—not making a sound. _

_Only, he wasn't sure he could do it. _

_He didn't know how. _

_His father had never hit him before. Not this way. There had been spontaneous smacks, a few cuffs behind his ear, some carelessly aimed swats. But nothing like this. Not a deliberate beating, one blow followed by another and another, hurting and hurting and hurting some more._

_His skin tingled, anticipating the pain. All around him, the bedroom throbbed with silence, ready to be shattered by the crack of leather against flesh._

_Only first, Ryan knew, there would be a sickening swish as the belt sliced through the air. He could feel his stomach churn, and he choked back the bile that rose in his throat._

_Digging his fingers into his bare ankles, he braced himself for that sound._

_It didn't come._

_Instead, he heard other noises: an urgent scraping, the thud of footsteps landing in the room, a sharp, shouted exchange. _

"_Dad, don't!"_

"_Stay out of this, Trey."_

"_No! Leave him alone." _

"_Trey. I'm warning you--" _

"_I don't care! He didn't do it, all right?"_

_Everything stopped. _

_Incredulous, scarcely moving, Ryan peeked up. _

_He could only sense his father, looming out of sight behind him, but he could see Trey. Tensely defiant, he stood by the window, staring over Ryan's head. His shoulders were hunched, stretching the cheap fabric of his t-shirt, his fists clenched spasmodically, and his eyes glittered in his drawn face. "Leave him alone," he repeated thickly. _

_It almost sounded to Ryan like a sob clotted his brother's voice, but that was impossible. _

_Trey never cried._

"_You gonna get mixed up in this, Trey?" A dangerous current ran under their father's soft words. "Gonna try to tell me what to do? Because that? Would be a goddamn mistake."_

_Don't, Ryan prayed. Don't, don't, don't, Trey. _

_He opened his mouth to say something—anything—but before he could, his brother blurted, "Ry didn't take your fuckin' whiskey! I did!" Rage and despair boiled through the confession. "I stole it and then when I heard you come home, I stuck the bottle in Ry's hand and took off! Okay?"_

_Ryan's eyes filled with tears. He could scarcely breathe._

_Trey edged a few inches closer. "Ry didn't do nothin'," he muttered. "The little bitch was too stupid to ditch the booze, that's all."_

_A calloused hand clamped around Ryan's neck and his father yanked him upright. "Is that what happened, boy?" he demanded. "And you damn well better not lie to me."_

_Ryan darted a desperate glance at Trey, but his brother's face was shuttered. It offered no answers at all. Defeated, he looked back at Frank. He couldn't focus, couldn't figure out what to say. All he could see was the strip of leather, whip-like and waiting, coiled in his father's hands. _

_Sour fluid pooled in his mouth and Ryan swallowed hard. "I . . ." he stammered._

"_Tell him!" Trey pleaded. "Tell him! You didn't take his damn whiskey, Ry! You didn't even drink it! I did!"_

_The belt swayed, taunting Ryan. It looked lethal and alive._

"_Well? I want an answer, boy. Now!"_

_Ryan shook his head, his whole body shuddering. "I didn't . . . take it," he choked. "But--"_

_He never got the chance to finish._

_Instantly, wordlessly, his father shoved him out the door. It slammed shut, a solid barrier that kept him separate, but somehow safe from nothing. _

_Ryan dropped to the floor. He huddled there, his cheek pressed against the uneven wood. Unconsciously, he squeezed his thumb until he forced out a grudging drop of blood. _

"_But it wasn't just Trey," he whispered to the door. "It wasn't. It wasn't. I was gonna take a drink too."_

The car lurched to a stop, jolting Ryan back into the present.

Dazed, almost completely drained, it took him a moment to register reality: the thick, humid air shimmering off the asphalt, the empty beer can crushed in his hand, his brother, uncannily still in the driver's seat.

"Trey?" he asked blankly.

Beside him, Trey gripped the steering wheel. His knuckles were white and he stared straight ahead as an orange gate creaked up, one inch at a time.

Outside, a bored guard waved them into the prison parking lot.

Trey turned deliberately to look at Ryan. "You ready?" he muttered. "Time to meet dear old dad."


	4. Chapter 4

Blood Ties, Chapter 4

**Blood Ties, Chapter 4**

Trey pulled the car to a sputtering stop inches from the gate. It jerked forward and then back, emitting a rusty wheeze as it settled. The guard in the booth glowered at the sound. Scratching an old scar on his jaw, he peered through the open window, taking his time, raking his gaze over the littered dashboard before coming to rest on Trey's rigid profile. Ryan could sense his brother stiffen under the slit-eyed scrutiny, could feel his own muscles tense and his breath clot, thick and rancid in his throat.

Atwoods and cops. Even now, when they'd been accused of nothing, the combination still produced that familiar reaction: defensiveness, guilt, an almost irresistible desire to flee.

Instinctively, Ryan nudged the empty beer can he had dropped further underneath his seat.

It had been stupid to drink it in the car, stupider not to have thrown the can away.

Every time Ryan was with Trey, the same thing seemed to happen: he got sucked into the whirlpool of his brother's heedless behavior. One false step and he found himself flailing helplessly in the vortex, unable to hold on to anything solid: common sense, or principles, or even coherent thought.

Ryan could never keep himself afloat.

He'd never been able to keep Trey from going under either.

Digging his nails into the cracked upholstery, he braced for the inevitable order--_"You guys been drinking? Get outta the car! Now!"_ Only this time, it didn't come. The guard just squinted against the sun and jotted their license plate number on his clipboard. Checking his watch, he scribbled down the time and lifted a hand, ready to wave them through.

Trey was already hunched forward, his fist clenching the gear shift when the phone in the booth rang. Its shrill blare, like an electric current, charged the stagnant air inside the car, stunning Trey and Ryan. They stiffened, sucking in air that tasted like fear.

Scowling into his receiver, the guard barked, "Cannady. What?"

One upraised index finger warned them to wait.

They did, both of them rigid, staring straight ahead, looking at nothing.

Movement masked so much. While they had been driving, with the world changing constantly outside his window, Ryan could imagine himself anywhere—on the beach at sunrise, in the sanctuary of his pool house, at the kitchen counter cluttered with white take-out containers, while Seth, Sandy or Kirsten, or maybe all of them, laughed as they scooped out food. But now, sitting motionless, Ryan couldn't pretend. He couldn't be anywhere except where he was.

Trapped, alone with Trey in the loaded silence.

Waiting for permission to exhale, to walk across the hot concrete, open the prison doors, and finally—far too late, far too soon—see their father again.

It had grown still in the car and suddenly much too warm. The same stifling heat that Ryan remembered from every single summer of his childhood wrapped around him again. Sweat trickled down from his hairline to pool, sticky as paste, at the base of his throat. He ran a furtive finger around the neck of his hoodie, peeling the garment away from his skin and wishing that he could shrug it off completely. Somehow, though, he couldn't.

It didn't make sense, but Ryan felt like he needed it, that thin layer of fabric between his bare skin and his brother's.

He shifted, and tugged the zipper down a scant inch. It was a tiny movement, and soundless, but Trey's eyes darted over anyway.

"Fucking hot, huh?" he muttered.

Ryan nodded. Silently, he touched his wrist, searching the smooth face of his watch. If time was passing, he couldn't feel it.

"Yeah," Trey continued. His voice bounced off the windshield. It sounded like Ryan's discarded beer can, drained, metallic, and useless. "Lousy car. No air-conditioning, no way to cool off. Just like when we were kids."

Just like when they were kids.

Stuck together in their baked shell of a house.

"_You're makin' it worse, Ry! Lie still, why doncha?"_

Ryan gritted his teeth. Not again, he pleaded silently. Not again.

His fingers gouged his watchband, seeking an anchor, but it was no use. He heard his childhood self whimper, and he was whipped into a maelstrom of memories.

_They still lived in Fresno. Ryan had been . . . maybe four, he thought, and he had the measles, or maybe chicken pox—some rash that made him itch and twist, unable to sleep in the city's thick, fetid air. _

_Next to him, Trey lay awake too, cracking his knuckles each time Ryan sobbed or scratched. _

"_Shit Ry," he sighed at last. "You gotta stop. You gonna do that all night?" _

_Ryan didn't recall answering. All he remembered was how his breath hitched with alarm when his brother abruptly rolled out of bed, swooped him up, and settled him flat on the floor._

"_Trey?" he whispered._

"_Just lay there, Ry! And don't scratch!" Trey hissed._

_Terrified, Ryan nodded. _

_He watched, filled with questions he didn't dare ask, as Trey yanked off their sheets, wadded them in his arms, and ducked out. The door swung shut behind him, leaving Ryan in the thick, lonely darkness. _

"_Trey? Come back," he mouthed silently. "Please?" _

_Eighty-four endless seconds passed—Ryan knew, because he counted them--before Trey burst back inside, dripping a liquid trail behind him, and smiling smugly._

"_Brace yourself, little brother," he warned, unfolding one sodden sheet. It was soaked with cold water and when he spread it over Ryan—even over his face, making him gasp and giggle—it had acted like some kind of magic cloak. In an instant, it soothed his angry rash. Almost better, it turned him invisible too. The squalid Atwood home disappeared, and Ryan floated away to somewhere he could barely imagine, someplace liquid and cool and quiet. _

_For a few minutes, nothing hurt, nothing burned or stung._

_Then the room's oven-hot air reclaimed the cloth. It grew warm again and Ryan felt reality drag him back home. He stirred unhappily, but the moment he moved, Trey snatched the sheets back and, raced out to refresh them. He did it again and again and again, maybe would have done it all night except . . . _

_Except their father woke up. _

_Fumbling his way to the bathroom, half-asleep and half-drunk, Frank slipped in a left-over puddle._

_They heard his startled cry first. A second of silence followed—not even long enough to breathe—and then his voice rose to an enraged roar._

"_Wha . . .? What the fuck is this? Trey!"_

_Instantly, his brother hissed, "Play you're asleep, Ry!"_

"_But . . ."_

"_You heard me. Do it!"_

_Ryan did. _

_Disappearing underneath the sheet, he clenched his eyes shut. He couldn't close his ears, though, so he heard it all: the bang of the bedroom door when his father threw it open; a series of sharp slaps as he hauled Trey to his feet, his bellowed "You coulda killed me, you know that, you stupid little shit?"_

_There had been more: Trey's garbled explanation—"I didn't mean to, Dad! It's just, Ry's been sick--" The threat in Frank's voice when he ordered, "You mop up that mess! Now! And I better not see one drop when you're done;" Dawn's drowsy, peevish whine, "Hey, what's goin' on? This hallway's all wet! What did you do now, Trey?" _

_Trey. They never even mentioned Ryan. He flinched anyway, hearing the blows that Frank punctuated his reply._

"_Whaddya think? What Trey always does! Act like a stupid, fucking ass, is what!"_

_Lying on the floor, Ryan listened mutely. The damp sheet clung to him like an alien skin and he felt his flesh flame, scalded less with the heat than with guilt._

_He wanted to say something, to save his brother somehow, but Trey had told him: pretend you're asleep. _

_Ryan obeyed his brother. _

_Back then, it was really all he knew how to do._

"Shit," Trey breathed bitterly. "He ever gonna get off that damn phone?"

His words were barely audible, just loud enough to pull Ryan back to the present, back to the sweltering car, the sunlight and stale air.

Startled, he blinked and shook his head.

It wasn't really a reply. Still, Trey appeared satisfied. He grinned sardonically, jerking his chin toward the prison.

"Gotta hand it to dear old dad," he mumbled, low, not risking the guard's attention. "Somehow the SOB manages to get himself released on the hottest day of the year, get us stuck out here, roasting." His eyes flashed suddenly, and his smile curled as he glanced at Ryan. "Hot as that day in Fresno. Remember, LB?"

Ryan inhaled sharply. He licked his parched lips, swallowed, and licked them again. Nothing had changed. They still tasted of salt and shame.

Expecting an attack, he braced himself.

He wasn't prepared to hear his brother chuckle.

"Damn." Trey snorted softly, the sound thick with reluctant admiration. "The sight of our old man charging at those guys--"

That wasn't right. That hadn't happened. Ryan darted a wary glance sideways. What was Trey talking about?

"What guys?" he asked.

"Come on, Ry. Don't tell me you forgot. Hell, Dad was on our side there for what . . . three whole minutes? Shit, that was a record for him."

It took a moment before Ryan realized: Trey wasn't sharing his memory. He was summoning his own, from some other time, the time that their father . . . that he . . . what? . . . what did he do?

Oh. Yes.

Tipping his head back, Ryan sank into his seat, remembering.

"_You really know how to do this, Trey?"_

"_Sure I do." Trey mopped his sweaty forehead with his arm and shifted slightly, getting a better grip on the fire hydrant. "Watch and learn, LB, watch and learn." Glancing up, he grinned, and elbowed Ryan in the ribs. "Lucky you got me to teach you things, right?"_

_Ryan shrugged a doubtful yes, furtively rubbing his side. His blond bangs hung long and limp in his eyes, and he pushed them back to watch._

_For five minutes, Trey struggled, pitting his wiry twelve-year-old body against the cap on the valve._

"_Damn . . . thing's . . . on so tight," he grunted at last. "Come on, Ry. Get over here and help."_

_Ryan didn't know why, but he hesitated. _

"_Don't be a fuckin' baby," Trey growled._

"_I'm not--"_

_But denial wasn't enough. Crouching beside his brother, Ryan dug his bare feet into the baked tree lawn and grasped one side of the cap. He and Trey pushed it, panting, until at last, with a whoosh, the thing turned._

_Both brothers fell backward._

"_We did it, Ry! We did it!" Trey crowed, flinging an arm around Ryan, half-hug, half-headlock, as they scrambled to their feet. "Okay, stand back! Here it goes!"_

"_We did it," Ryan thought. His brother said, "We." _

_Tingling with some emotion he couldn't name, he darted sideways as Trey released the valve._

_A sudden geyser erupted into the air, vanquishing Fresno's hundred-degree sunshine. _

_Trey whooped in triumph._

_Pulling Ryan with him, he plunged into the jet of water. It stung, fierce and icy-sharp. Both boys flinched, gasping as the spray hit their bare skin. Almost instantly, though, the shock disappeared. It left them drenched and deliciously chilled. Ryan shivered, delighted. For the first time in a week, he felt refreshed, even clean. Stripping off his grimy t-shirt, he peered at his brother, smiling a shy thank you. Trey grinned back. He nodded, his eyes glinting silver-gray, and then, without warning, he tackled Ryan. They both tumbled to the ground, laughing._

_For a few blissful minutes they were carefree kids: luxuriating in the rush of cold water, sluicing it over their faces, splashing each other, racing through a dizzying rainbow of droplets, stamping in the puddle that formed under their feet._

_Trey romped heedlessly, more childlike than Ryan, his antics so wild that they both lost their breath, giggling._

_Then city workers arrived to shut off the flow._

"_Shit!" Trey froze in mid-spin. His jaw tightened, and his gaze flew to their house. Ryan's followed instantly._

_A current of alarm surged through his body._

_They had forgotten about their father._

_Frank sat on the front porch watching, a drink in one hand, the stub of a spent cigarette dangling from the other. When the truck pulled over, his eyes narrowed to slits and he heaved himself off the top step. As soon as he moved, Trey did too. Clutching Ryan's elbow, he yanked him out of Frank's path. They stood together on the cracked sidewalk, dripping with hydrant water and sweat, waiting warily as their father approached._

_Each step deepened the ominous red flush on Frank's face but Ryan knew from experience: there was no way to predict where he would direct his attack._

"_What the hell are you doing?" he growled. His fist closed around his beer can, crushing it flat before he flung it to the ground._

"_Sorry, Dad--" Trey began. _

_He stopped, stumbling into Ryan, when Frank brushed him aside. _

_Completely ignoring his sons, he advanced until his bulky frame blocked the hydrant. "It's a hundred fucking degrees out here. Whassa matter? You tight-ass SOBs can't even let a couple kids cool off for a while?"_

_The worker eyed Frank with derisive calm. "Opening fire hydrants is illegal," he responded evenly. "It depletes the water supply available to the fire department in case of an emergency. That's a hazard to the whole community. If you'll step aside . . . sir."_

_Frank flipped his still-burning cigarette into the street. "Yeah. Like the fire department would ever respond to a fucking call in this neighborhood anyway. Just sit back on their lazy asses and let it burn."_

"_Sir--" the worker repeated_

_The word twisted into a knot so tight that Ryan could sense the insult. Instinctively, he sidled closer to Trey. _

"_I asked you to move."_

_Frank glared, motionless, and Trey gripped Ryan's wrist. He knew what the gesture meant--get ready to run—and he rocked forward slightly onto the balls of his feet._

_Like racers, they stood, their hearts pounding, listening for the crack of the starting gun._

"_Hey, Ken!" The truck driver leaned out his window. "You got a problem out there?"_

"_I don't know," his co-worker replied. His tone was still calm and Ryan felt a flash of admiration as the man, unfazed by any threat, faced down his father. "Do we?" he asked._

_Frank's jaw moved, and the muscles of his arms tensed. Then he opened his mouth and spat on the scabby lawn. "What the hell ever," he growled. He shifted aside, making it look less like a concession than a father's protective retreat. Pushing himself between Trey and Ryan, he draped an arm around each of their shoulders._

_Ryan caught his breath, but he knew not to flinch. He was sure that Trey did too._

"_I'm just lookin' after my kids," he claimed. "They're bakin' in this damn heat. What the fuck do you expect them to do now?"_

_The worker didn't bother to reply. He just shut the open valve, stood up, and jotted something down on his clipboard. "We're not citing you this time," he said, putting away his pen. "Consider it a warning. But this hydrant better not be opened again." As he climbed back into the truck, he paused to rake Ryan's father with a final, scathing glance. His mouth thinned with contempt as he took in Frank's dingy, torn t-shirt, his stained pants, unshaven face and bloodshot eyes. "You know," he added curtly, "if you're so concerned about your sons staying cool, here's a clue: get off your ass, maybe get a job and buy a fan or a wading pool for them to use."_

_The truck pulled away before Frank could respond._

"_Why you--" Incoherent with rage, he retrieved his beer can and hurled it savagely at the vehicle's taillight. It missed. Frank watched the crumbled container bounce harmlessly in the street. Then he rounded on Trey and Ryan. They had already begun to edge away, but they froze, still within reach, when his searchlight glare caught them. "You little shits!" he hissed. _

_His hands shot out. Both boys jerked backwards, terrified. Scrambling for traction on the wet grass, they started to flee but as he spun around, Trey slipped. He fell, landing hard on one knee. Instinctively, Ryan turned back, grabbed his brother's shoulder and hauled him to his feet._

"_Shit, LB, just run!" Trey yelled._

_It was too late though. In the second it took Ryan to steady them both their father caught them each by the throat. He shook them, squeezing until they choked. "I don't have enough shit to deal with without you two selfish brats bringin' smartass city workers here, tryin' to tell me how to live," Frank snarled. Releasing the boys just enough to let them breathe, he propelling them toward the house. If you ever fuckin' do anything like that again--"_

_They didn't. Ryan and Trey learned. Even when the heat wave continued and other kids opened fire hydrants on the block, they stayed far away. The most they dared to do was to watch wistfully and recall those brief moments of feeling cool, having fun._

_Forgetting to be afraid._

"Okay. Go on in."

Ryan jumped slightly. Beside him, he could feel Trey jerk upright too.

"Pull in," the guard repeated irritably. He leaned out the window, stabbing the stale air with his thumb. "You guys asleep or somethin'? Gates up. Now, you two goin' inside or not?"

_You two goin' inside or not?_

That cement block of a building, constructed to contain anger and evil and violence, where their father was waiting.

His mouth filled with sour liquid and Ryan swallowed shakily.

Trey glanced over. The gray of his eyes seemed to have seeped into his face, dulling all his features, making him into a shadow of himself.

"Your call, LB," he said. Even his voice sounded different to Ryan, distant and dim somehow. "You can get out here if you want, catch a bus back home to the Cohens. It's okay. I can . . ." Trey paused, shrugging. His mouth twisted into a replica of his usual, ironic grin. "Hell, it's not like we're kids anymore. I can face our old man myself."

Ryan took a deep breath. That was true: he could. He could go home to the Cohens. Unconsciously, he slid one hand into his pocket. With the other, he reached for the door handle. He touched the latch with one finger, started to press it down, then shuddered, and yanked his arm back. "No," he murmured, almost to himself. The word scratched his throat, but he repeated it anyway. "No. I'll go with you, Trey."

"Yeah?" A tinge of color returned to his brother's face. "You sure about this, Ry?"

Ryan nodded tersely.

"Hey, any time this century," the guard barked. "Make up your minds—in or out?"

"Pull in, Trey," Ryan ordered. He sat up straight, his shoulder bumping against his brother's. At the contact, Trey peered at him, surprised, and Ryan ducked his head. He sighed a slight, rueful smile, searching for some way to explain. At last he spoke, his words muffled by the cough of the car as it jolted into gear.

"He's my father too," Ryan said softly. "And you and me, Trey? We've come this far together. So we'll face him the same way."

_**TBC (one more time. Sigh.)**_


End file.
